HD 'Dream'
by tigersilver
Summary: Draco-POV, and can be read as the subtext to 'I was never your enemy'.


Author: tigersilver  
Pairing: H/D  
Rating: R (barely!)  
Word Count: 700  
Warnings & A/N: T'is is another stocking stuffer for **annafugazzi**, and the reason is simple: I wrote crack for her this morning, and tonight I write 'feeling'. Draco-POV, and can be read as the subtext to 'I was never your enemy'. This, darling, is a little bit of what's real, I hope, and this, I hope, is the meat-and-bones of it, and far more satisfying than silly parlour tricks. You deserve the real thing, the heart of it. You've given such heart to us, and no lie, so? No magic...just want, pure and simple. Want, and love. With all best regards, Tiger

HD 'Dream'

It's _so_ warm. He's not been warm like this before, not with another body against his, not like this; **never **like this.

The Manor's a formal place, and Mum and Papa are formal people. So stiff and so aware, and Draco's born into it, but that doesn't mean he always understands.

He's not been so unsure, so uneasy, not for a long time—no, that's _not _true. He has, but Papa is always so stern. He hides it; best that way, he's learnt. Malfoys are people—Wizards and Witches—who know who they are, who are perfectly comfortable. At their ease, always. Above.

But…Harry. Harry leaves _him_ uncomfortable. Prickly inside and…and burning. Hot. Sad. Wanting.

Wanting something he can't name, something he's never had. It's only the touching of him that brings it out, blooming hot: that half-uncertain grin, the tilt of green eyes, the look that's not angry, not hateful…not mean.

Oh…happy, is it? It's so strange, _happy_.

He's so blissfully warm in the forgiving dark, and it's something he's not known before, and craves, and would maybe—just possibly?—die for? He hopes he doesn't have to, Draco does, but he's young and it's not impossible, not inconceivable, wishing to die for something so perfect. Seems a bit...but it seems a bit of a waste, doesn't it?

To die, when he'd just found a reason for living?

But, he'd _like_ to live. Much prefer to live and have_ Harry_ live, too. _Not _be taken by the madness, _not_ be lost to the Dark. Is that so odd? In this odd world?

He'd, if his wishes came true so easily anymore, as they had when he was but a stripling, a child in short pants, and Mummy made it happen with a wave of her wand—he'd like, he'd want, he'd wish, with all his heart—

**Not** to lose what it is he's gained, solely by a bow at a venture. This uncertain gift, this ambivalent blessing that is Potter, Harry. Oh!

Oh, Harry!

_This _boy. This miraculous, alien boy, this body, against his, in the dark, deep night. He wants to keep him, Draco does. In his gut and his chest, in that thing Mummy calls his 'soul,' deep within him—that? He wants to _keep him_. Draco wants to. Keep. Him.

And no madman, no dire Lord, _nothing_—**nothing**, not even a binding bind, not a stern parent, not Snape, nor promises made under duress, will—or can—halt that wanting. He's spoilt. He wants what he wants, yes, he does. Draco Malfoy.

He's been spoilt; he barely realizes it, but it's there, how he's been indulged, all his life.

But this is _nothing to do_ with simple indulgence, and he's not joking about—he's not—**he's not**!

Spoilt children have spines, nonetheless; they grow them, and Draco's is steel, Malfoy steel, thanks so much, and he's been given—no, he's taken, as his due, Potter. And he will. Not. Give. Him. Back.

Morning. It dawns watery in the dungeons of Slytherin. It comes treading on Kneazle feet, pitter-patter, like the drips of water down the glass portholes, like the humidity beading off of the stained glass mermaids in the bath. In the bath.

And Draco pastes his face on, his smirk and his sneer, and then mutes them, deliberately, because it's this boy, this man, this dream. And he'll not waste his chance this time, but he's not about to roll over, either.

But Harry is warm—he's fucking brilliant; dazzling—and seems to own boundless shoals of forgiveness, oceans of heat, within him, and it's probably alright to be himself, a little—the old Draco? And maybe a little of his new self, too. Somewhere in between, exploring, treading the path gently.

Harry is warm, and still sleeping. Chest heaving gently, a curve to his lips.

It's likely all right, then.

This _is _Harry.

And Draco…Draco's known Harry for a long time, a long time.

And Harry? He _never_. He never lets go what is **his**.

Finite.

For **annafugazzi**, to make up for the crack earlier, this is something a little sweet, and a little sad. Darling. Just like Life. Happy New Year! And do _please_ enjoy your 'second' stocking stuffer and thanks so much for the excuse to write this, love. As it wouldn't stop coming, until it was written. Ta! Tiger


End file.
